I Have No Idea What I’m Even Doing Tonight

Why spend all night
refilling water bottles from the tap?
My weird cousins came over and made me
a firm believer in the war of water balloons.
They smash like poems. The shrapnel
continuously rolling

over place,
real and fake, like Buffalo, New York,
Monkey Wards,
Merrimac, Kentucky,
Moldy Dead Guy Island,
Cat Crunch Meow National Park,
Monterrey, Mexico,
Beirut, Lebanon,
The Kevorkian School of Veterinarian Medicine and Ethics,
Bogotá, Columbia,
The Caves of San Francisco’s Non Art Community,
Lake Charles, Louisiana.

Hell, maybe even South Bend, Indiana.

Panic covers the access to sensory retrieval, smashes a beach,
welts from a liquid whip bruises the body made of granules. The

sand mutates darker as the water and the sun have
their way with it. The tide reaches for a lady,
in a plastic folding chair, reading something.

Possibly, her thoughts are of the one who was here and
then departed. Broke onto the shore, only to
retreat back to nature.

Who could’ve seen any of this coming?